


No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition

by blcwriter



Series: Write a New Alphabet [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Stiles, Magic!Stiles, Multi, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Post s2 finale, Pre-Slash, off-screen gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You’re not their kind of Alpha, that’s why they came, not a cowed bunch of humans, no omegas.  We’re not their kind of pack.   That’s why we can beat them.  Not what they expect.”  Stiles’ whisper was quiet, his amber eyes flickering almost beta gold in his witchlight, and Derek tried not to startle (or growl) at how close Stiles’ comment came to the mark, even if it was—kind of the opposite from the self-hating shit he hurled at himself when he stared at his burnt ceilings some nights.  If Stiles was dreaming with Erica, what else was he picking up?  </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Later.  He needed to talk to Stiles.  Later.  Something had shifted, and it was before Gerard Argent, even if it was only now that Derek was sniffing it out.</i></p><p> </p><p>Derek only tracked Stiles down because Isaac was worried.  He hadn't expected what he had found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the start to what will, for a bit, be a pack-family-building (and probably off-canon as S3 progresses, though I'll try to keep up, since I've got the arc sort of plotted out) series of episodes dealing with s1 and s2 dynamics and feelings building up to a future fic post-college Stiles/Derek-- really slow burn, where it takes everyone a while to really work everything out, with more and less drama as each of the pack members comes to figure out how they're broken/incomplete and why and if that even matters to their place in the pack.
> 
> The series (if finished) will get more mature with more on-screen violence, gore, and sexuality as it develops, both het and slash. At some point, there will probably be non-con and underage sexuality (those will be warned for). 
> 
> Currently rated mature for language and violent thoughts. Will eventually become explicit for sexuality and gore. This is a series based on a tv show about the supernatural and also about teenagers. Please expect the unexpected when it comes to any and all issues of abilities and identity of any and all characters.
> 
> Constructive criticism, questions & suggestions are welcome, though I'm not always great at answering comments. I've chosen to do this as a series rather than a WIP because I am horrible at updating and this way I can at least ensure that each episode is self-contained.

“How’d you mask your scent?” He even tacked on a question mark, because Stiles would snark about his lack of punctuation and—well. It had been a long month, and it wasn’t just Stiles’ voice inside his head saying _interrogatives, Derek, use them_. Laura would have been an excellent teacher.

Stiles just shrugged, his voice flat. “Something Deaton showed me how to make.”

Of course. Isaac had said—before his worried text of tonight-- that Stiles had been spending time with the veterinarian. Magic-handler. Advisor. Something.

“How’d you find me?” He didn’t turn around from where he sat at the top of the outcropping, looking out over the city, the flourescents, the slow-moving cars, the buildings slowly going to sleep, the high school's lights still burning off to the left, the pool of light fading from its flare at the outer ring in toward its middle. He didn’t say anything as Derek sat—as nothing erupted, yet, bloody, at the high school. Well. As Derek watched. Stiles couldn’t see that far, and even Derek had to squint at this distance.

“The Jeep needs new oil seals.”

Stiles nodded, the motion short, jerky. He didn’t say anything else, just gripped his long fingers tighter around his knees where he’d pulled them up against his chest, the only outward sign of any emotion, and even that was hard to decide. Fear? Annoyance at being found? Being cold?

It was disturbing—becomes more so, to sit next to Stiles and have him say nothing. He could hear the younger one’s heart beat, its uneven thump, erratic as always, impossible to interpret without a scent cue because Stiles’ various human—he didn’t want to call them ailments, they were just things that ailed Stiles, but, still, there was nothing wrong with him, he just was—but there was nothing but that strange not-Stiles smell sitting next to him on a rock and Stiles’ face, that, that was stone, too, that and those long, white skinny fingers gripping themselves. Those fingers that spread all that ash. Rammed that Jeep. Delivered Lydia over to Jackson. Held Derek up in that pool, left bruises in wet-cold, nerve-deadened skin. Picked bullets out of wolf-wounds. More than he could catalog, sitting here on a rock cold enough to make even Derek’s ass a bit uncomfortable. 

Of course, he’d seen that stony expression on Stiles’ face, too, when Stiles thought other people weren’t looking. It was his—angry, scared shitless, just short of panicked expression, but also his calculating expression, his fuck-you, I know better face—and there were no scent cues to help him parse any of that. While Derek could understand—very much—the desire for a little privacy when everywolf else could smell and hear (sort of, if they concentrated, if they paid attention, if they used the gifts of their wolf) that you were upset and won’t leave you alone? It was troublesome that Derek was included in the group of people Stiles wanted privacy from.

Although he hadn’t told Derek to leave, though it was also a question if he’d expected Derek to appear. There had been a distinct lack of flailing on Derek’s arrival, unlike his visits to Stiles’ room. 

He filed that contrast away for analysis. Later.

“Isaac was worried when you didn’t show up tonight.”

Stiles didn’t even huff a laugh. The exhale was more controlled than that—spearmint gum controlled zen. One corner of his mouth twitched—up, down, flat, his eyes fluttering shut in microseconds as he looked down, then straight ahead, but didn’t otherwise respond to Derek’s comment. 

His heart continued on its insane rollercoaster inside his chest. One of these days, Derek was going to break into Stiles’ doctor’s office and read his file himself to make sure that erratic heartrate thing really was just medication and not something Stiles wasn’t mentioning that had to do with why his mother was dead and he nagged the fuck out of his father about the shit that he ate.

“Jackson and Lydia texted me too.”

The corner of Stiles’ pale pink lips did that same twitch again—a little harder, a bit more surprise this time—so that feint worked, because Stiles switched the grip of his hands so he was circling his fingers around his wrists and said, drily, “They’re going to win homecoming whether or not I’m there to vote, though I would’ve voted for Danny anyway because no matter what, Jackson’s a douche, but I already told Lydia the dress she bought was awesome.” One shoulder dipped in the minutest shrug.

Stiles’ phone in his jacket buzzed, but he made no move to answer—something completely unlike him, when he was usually attached to it like a lifeline.

“Lydia was under the impression you were going to go. Isaac too.”

Derek could admit that he would never be the Sheriff—and that throwing people into walls was a much easier way of getting the information he wanted than asking questions, but after the warehouse— with the alphas prowling around, with hunters hurting his humans, with the situation borderline out of control—he’d had to ask himself lots of questions.

It had been kind of painful, and not just because the hardest questions sounded like Stiles. And sometimes Peter.

Stiles shrugged. “The last time I went to a dance, my date got mauled and it started a vendetta between a girl’s parents and the guy that she loved that led to some Romeo and Juliet shit that would have struck Shakespeare as fucked in the head. I figured I’d skip it this year.” 

He didn’t mention—so Derek wouldn’t either—that Scott had not contacted Derek about Stiles being MIA. 

Scott was a problem. Moreso than usual.

Stiles, meanwhile, sounded disinterested in this whole conversation, his voice flat and still. Like being normal and going to a high school dance with his friends was just—no longer important. But Derek knew, for a fact, because Isaac had told him, that Isaac and Scott and Jackson and Lydia had dragged Stiles to the mall more than once to go shopping because it could literally be their last dance before the Alpha Pack slaughtered them all. Derek hadn’t had it in him to tell them they were wasting time better spent on training and logistics because—Derek and Peter and Allison couldn’t find squat, Argent, either, and though teenage logic was flawed, die young and leave a beautiful corpse actually had a horrible logic when you were or hung out with werewolves, and Stiles had been on him in the past to remember that yes, the pack was werewolves, but they were still also kids—even though his heart had always beat like he knew he’d been telling a lie, something that made Derek confused and angry because—well. They were. Kids. All of them. Even if all of them had had shitty lives. They were still kids, compared.

And yet.

No one had managed to get Stiles to talk about what had happened with Gerard in that basement—he’d said Boyd and Erica had been there, they knew Argent had freed them after Gerard had roughed Stiles up and Derek had seen—smelt—the bruising and blood—but with the turning of Jackson, the killing of Gerard, the mountain ash circle, Erica and Boyd panicking like prey (and they were), the Alphas announcing themselves—he’d been reluctant to press, because Derek well understood not wanting to talk about the things that had hurt you. 

“Do wolves dream together?” Stiles asked, out of the blue. “I mean. Pack.”

Derek's wolf's ear's perked—even as he carefully, carefully, leaned a shoulder against Stiles’. His heart only skittered a little. “Sometimes.” He and Laura had dreamed. Not always about the fire.

Stiles nodded, as if confirming something. “A … uh.” His heartbeat skittered again, spearmint exhalations, inhaling. Okay. So maybe Derek could still tell some things without Stiles’ scent. He bit back a growl of worry while Stiles got over whatever had him nervous. If Stiles had pack-bonded with one of them strongly enough to dream….

“Once she got over the she-vamp thing, and taking it out on me that I was oblivious to everything besides Lydia, which, yeah, anyway. A couple of times. Um. Erica slept over? Just. Sleeping. But. Um. Her mom and her boyfriend were fighting. And. My dad pulls lots of doubles, and she’s like her wolf-daddy and does the creeper-wolf window thing and claimed she was just being Catwoman so I should shut up and go back to sleep so I did but. I figured it was kind of a pack thing and she always seemed kind of freaked out so I wasn’t going to tell her no, that warehouse is disgusting, I mean, no offense, but.”

“You know where she is.”

The spearmint clouding the air in Stiles’ relief almost made Derek sneeze. He twitched his nose and resisted the urge. “I think so. There’s these mines, a half mile from here, they’re boarded. I might have played in them a lot when I was little and there are some pretty distinctive formations.” He paused, then added, as if it were an afterthought, “Plus, you’ll be able to smell them once we get inside.”

He paused, then said—“Plus, I scryed them with some hair she left in her room, you need to talk to the pack about trace magic, dude, that’s some serious shit, but anyway, they’re only a half a mile in. And they’re both roughed up, but alive, though I’m sure you can tell that better than me.”

He could hear his nails screeing the rock, but mostly he was listening to Stiles’ heartbeat not panicking as Derek tried to figure out if his wolf wanted out because he was angry at the Alphas, afraid because Stiles had formed a pack bond strong enough to dream with a beta Derek could still only sense at the flickering edges, or if his wolf was merely slavering for the territorial hunt. His human wanted to let the wolf out for something that was—something that he couldn’t see to look at, straight on, all sharp colors and angles and glints and wrong/right/pretty/sharp/soft/hurt/now/never.

“When were you going to tell me?” he managed to ask. Ask. 

“After we’d gotten them out,” came Allison’s voice from behind, and he hadn’t scented her—he leapt up, and she had that same not-scent, which combined with her stealth (her bow was down, her arrow not cocked, no gutting knives in her hands) and Peter—Peter, his scent was masked too—stood next to her, looking troubled and stubborn and angry and like he smelled something off, in that he didn’t smell anything at all from all the bodies assembled. If that was the expression on Derek’s face, he probably looked like someone had farted.

He’d been concentrating so hard on Stiles that he hadn’t heard their heartbeats approach. His wolf hadn’t felt his own packmates. Though his wolf thought Allison was pack. Hunh.

He filed that for later, too.

Stiles, meanwhile, unfolded himself from the rock. 

“So, got all stuff on the lists?”

Peter nodded. Allison too.

Derek was missing something crucial here. Why were his two humans and his uncle meeting on the night of the last high school dance to—go hunt Alphas? 

Without Derek? Who’d only come here because Isaac had sent him a text that said  
 _I don’t know wtf wrong w Stiles but worried, said he’d come to dance and didn’t, he’s all srs bsns and & not talking to Scott, can u go hunt him down and by hunt I mean find? : ( _

Since Derek had always assumed it would take Derek actually ripping Stiles’ throat out with his teeth to stop Stiles from talking to Scott, he’d started out right away.

“Is there a reason you’re not at the dance, Allison?” he tried asking, because yes, she was kind of psycho, but then again, apparently sanity was a thin line with the Hales sometimes, too. 

Allison rolled her eyes. “Scott’s a lying douchebag and he let his best friend get hurt even if he was trying to protect his mom. I might have been completely deluded at the time and more than a little bit nuts and still kind of maybe, but I can at least admit when I’m wrong, whereas he’s pretending like adopting Isaac makes everything okay because now he’s a good wolf, but he’s still pretending like just because everyone feels bad, it’s okay, which, just, no,” which—interesting, how that comment made Stiles blush, and also, how she'd apparently spent enough time around Stiles to pick up his babble. She shrugged. “Also, I’m sorry, but killing slavering monsters kind of runs in the blood, I figured at least if I do it for the pack and not against it it’s kind of good karma? Besides. Stiles has a good plan.”

Peter nodded as if he approved of this tangled logic. “I definitely bit the wrong kid in the woods.” His gaze pinged to Stiles, but then he looked long at Allison, too.

Stiles pulled a knife out from the small of his back—when had Stiles?—Derek could smell the wolfsbane on it from where he stood, even Allison’s knives weren’t so tainted—and waggled it at Peter. What had Stiles done—annealed the thing in potions? 

“We don’t talk about Bite Club. You are in on this because you are a territorial Hale with a good nose once we’re in those caverns, plus, you know, a credit limit for buying me Molotov ingredients, damnit. Plus, you want these assholes off the land before you go back to your plotty plots of evil, and if that means saving Boyd and Erica first, you’ll do it, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fucking disembowel you and bury you at the crossroads in a hot second. Capiche?”

Peter waggled his eyebrows at Stiles, but nevertheless took a step back. “Oh, Spark, I do love an honest human. But I’d like to know where you’re hiding your sword.”

Stiles’ laugh was harsh. “You really wouldn’t. I promise.” Derek really didn’t like—his wolf, either—the edged tone of this conversation, a dark, double-edged knife between all their ribs that just sliced, teased, poked, and he shot a look at his uncle, because he had been helpful of late, but Derek didn’t need scent right now to detect that Stiles _hated_ Peter.

Peter looked at Stiles and then apparently reconsidered whatever remark he was going to make. “Perhaps I’m not needed, then?” That cajoling, flirtatious tone was now gone, but this odd, vulnerable one made Derek stiffen even as Stiles did, too.

Stiles gave Derek’s uncle a glare. “I’m not the Alpha, Peter. I asked you because I thought _you_ might like to be useful.” Only then did he turn to Derek, and, in the way that Stiles did, went back to the non-conversation they’d been only sort of having. “But like I said, you can probably pick up their scent even before we get in the tunnels.”

He seemed to assume that now that Derek was here (uninvited, because Derek had hunted him down for a completely unrelated reason, i.e. Stiles was freaking out part of his pack), that Derek would be coming along—or that Derek would insist on coming along? Even though he’d clearly never planned on inviting Derek in the first place. As if—naturally—the two humans and his insane uncle going on a batshit crazy rescue mission through mining tunnels even Derek was scared of—where none of them smelled like humans or wolves and two of the three knew werewolf-level stealth and the third was apparently rapidly acquiring serious witch skills ( _which no one had bothered to tell Derek about, completely aside from the fact that he hadn’t asked Stiles what else he’d learned besides that mountain ash trick_ )—because what was it Stiles had said? 

Something about being useful? 

He was getting a fucking headache.

The wolf, too.

He filed away the bit of his rage in the cryptic conversation between Stiles and Peter about biting—Derek didn’t need to be Mr. Spock to logic that out—but he’d deal with Peter about that later on, assuming they made it out alive, because, well, so far they had and these three idiots seemed to believe that they would and well. Fuck. Derek’s pessimism hadn’t gotten them along very well so far, had it? 

So.

After they got Erica and Boyd back.

“Explain this brilliant plan to me,” he said, gesturing for one of them to lead the way back to the cars, where presumably there were supplies for this raid.

The explanation made sense. And there were supplies—small and glass-vialed, black potions and chemicals--liquid fire that Peter side-eyed-- handheld pistols that both Peter and Stiles handled with more competence than Derek wanted to reflect on right now, the weapons reeking of wolfsbane, Allison’s arrows, knives for close quarters, flares and pepper spray and matches and a whole fucking death arsenal that strapped in tight to cargo pants and vests and jacket pockets and didn’t clink and rattle the way Derek thought that it should. But—“we need flashlights for Allison and Stiles,” he said, because the moon was out now, as they hiked toward the tunnels, but it would be dark inside.

Peter snickered. Allison huffed. Stiles laughed, though again, there was something off about the sound. 

“Derek, motherfucking spark, ok?” 

A small ball of witchlight flared up before them, tiny, white, just enough to see by. It had that same not-smell as Peter—Stiles—Allison—and now Derek, who’d anointed himself with the oil in the small glass jar that Stiles had handed him, with the instructions—“pulse points, sex organs, all of them, back of the neck, behind the ears, ankles, elbows, backs of the knees—wherever else you get sweaty.” It had taken not that much time. And not that much oil. And now, Derek, smelling like nothing at all, was following a hunter, a human, and his crazy ex-dead, ex-Alpha, uncle to get back his wayward betas from a pack that smelled a full dozen strong.

“You’re not their kind of Alpha, that’s why they came, not a cowed bunch of humans, no fucking omegas. We’re not their kind of pack. That’s why we can beat them. Not what they expect.” Stiles’ whisper was quiet, his amber eyes flickering almost beta gold in his witchlight, and Derek tried not to startle (or growl) at how close Stiles’ comment came to the mark, even if it was—kind of the opposite from the self-hating shit he hurled at himself when he stared at his burnt ceilings some nights. If Stiles was dreaming with Erica, what else was he picking up? 

Later. He needed to talk to Stiles. Later. Something had shifted, and it was before Gerard Argent, even if it was only now that Derek was sniffing it out.

For the first time all night, Stiles’ smile was real as he looked over at Derek, his steps quiet and sure and in no way flailed or awkward—though often they weren’t, and they hadn’t been that night at lacrosse.

“What were they expecting?”

Stiles snorted, his smile a bit broader. Still real.

“Dude. You’re the one with the Spanish Inquisition headgear, not me. I’m not going there. Oh. Wait. Too late.”

Peter’s snicker behind them was louder than it should be, but he’d always been a Monty Python geek, so. And maybe Derek was a little relieved that Stiles—so serious, tonight—could joke as they walked toward danger.

And then started to run, because Boyd was screaming (screaming, not howling). Stiles’ fingers’ twitched as they all started to run faster, human and wolf instincts aligned, and the light grew brighter, hotter, around them.

\--

“He’ll be alright?”

Deaton nodded, abstracted, as he watched Stiles choke down some potion that had already been boiling on Deaton’s stove when Derek and Allison had carted in the rest of the group, Erica and Peter half supporting themselves and Boyd needing to be carried altogether. 

“The burns are superficial—magic-caused, so magic can heal them, mostly, and the potion will replenish what he used up tonight,” the veterinarian said, as he kept on stitching Boyd’s gouges. Erica and Peter were taking turns cleaning and growling and whimpering at the other’s attempts to clean the other’s wounds, but (amazingly) none were so bad that they needed other attention.

Allison was stoically washing her scratches at the sink. “I’ll butterfly those for you, Als,” Stiles called, and she nodded as Stiles made a grimace at the beaker of goo he’d just finished, then staggered over to lean against her as he washed his own hands and face. He had only superficial scratching. It was.

Really amazing.

He’d have to ask Stiles more about the magic study—later, when he didn’t look so ready to drop, but the two teens were supporting each other to one of the steel tables, and then Stiles’ steady fingers were applying the bandages to a shallow slash on Allison’s forehead, joking that a scar would make her badass as Allison cracked that Stiles should get a concealed carry permit, because he was hot with a gun. Her sad smile made it clear her flirting meant nothing, and Stiles’ nod made it clear he accepted the compliment as nothing but a nod to his competence (how often did any of them say thank you? Allison might be the first), but Derek wondered. He shouldn’t be surprised that Stiles was competent with a gun—but Stiles was full of things Derek didn’t know about. Or Stiles had hidden. Or something that intersected somewhere in the middle. There was some kind of math term for that Lydia would use as an analogy, Derek was sure.

Stiles’ frown and serious turn as she carried on about the permit, about protecting the pack—his protest—“It’s still not my secret to tell,” tickled some part of Derek’s attention even as Boyd whimpered and Derek turned back, laid a soothing hand on his shoulder to draw off more pain because Boyd still wasn’t conscious enough to get what Erica already was starting to accept, which was—he was still pack, he had been right to be scared, you could make mistakes and still be pack, the important part was being sorry and trying to do the right thing afterward. 

Which Derek was learning.

And he knew Boyd would. Erica would. Was pretty sure Peter would. Had no doubt about Stiles, and he was not going to snap at Deaton, who kept giving Derek these _looks_ and then looking at Stiles, when yes, Derek recalled that conversation but Derek had a pack on his mind and Deaton had better be prepared to sit his enigmatic ass down and answer some detailed questions. Derek was going to buy a goddamned notebook. Make a list. With a pen. And he could feel Isaac, who was on his way, Jackson, too, the ruckus in the tunnels (not to mention the howling and fire) tugging at him and Derek could feel him coming, even Lydia through their mate-bond. The place where Scott was felt off, and his wolf growled, because Scott. He was angry at Scott, and not just because he hadn’t helped the general pack and now didn’t seem to know that there’d been trouble, even involving his so-called Juliet. But. The pack. His pack. What was it Stiles had said, in the witch light? 

They weren’t a proper pack of born wolves, literal family, and they weren’t the more traditional group of bitten omegas who voted up an alpha or a violent alpha who bit himself some literal slaves—but they were their own kind of pack, even if Derek had made his share of mistakes.

But maybe they could make something out of it anyway.

\--

“Hale,” the sheriff greeted, as Derek stood on the porch. He’d taken a bit to answer the door, but he was in jeans and a sweatshirt, still in boots, like he’d been working on his sofa—or fallen asleep there, at least.

“Sir,” he answered, because Stiles’ words to Allison stuck with him. He was sure Stiles had meant them about the pack, about Scott, and more. Derek knew about being afraid to lose the last person you had—but the sheriff could get killed at a domestic tomorrow, much less getting run off the road by a drunk driver. 

Humans were so fragile. Even offering the sheriff the bite (assuming Stiles wouldn’t kill Derek for it) wouldn’t protect him. But Stiles shouldn’t have to come up with a lie about why he was sleeping off a magical potion at the vet’s office tonight. Or have his father keep on secretly getting him tested for drugs (and Stiles secretly hacking the police email system for supernatural leads), and the rest of the kids on the lacrosse team, because that was apparently some kind of thing—he’d had a fight with Jackson and Scott to lay off the marijuana a few months ago because “it doesn’t do anything for you except make you feel like you're a badass, which, um, no, and it’ll give my dad the excuse he needs to ground me forever and goodbye, google-fu, unless you want to drag poor Danny into this mess.” They’d laid off the weed, and Derek hadn't even had to growl to back up Stiles' request.

“I wanted to talk to you about Stiles,” he offered, because he was aware, yes, that a conversation consisted of more than an exchange of names.

Something in the sheriff’s face shifted—minute expressions, his heart speeding up and a complex layer of scent—suspicion, worry, fear, anticipation, relief, like someone was going to tell him the truth. 

“He’s not at the dance.” It was a statement, because of course the man would have someone on duty at homecoming. 

Derek shook his head, no. “May I come in? I’d rather have this conversation in private.”

Stilinski nodded and stepped aside, and grunted when Derek headed to the kitchen, sniffed out the sugar, opened the cabinet. “This is going to sound all very outlandish and weird, and yes, it’s related to the death of my sister and those deaths at your station, and Melissa McCall can confirm all of this-- I hope you’ll talk to her when you’re done asking me whatever questions you have but… the last year, what Stiles has been avoiding explaining to you…”

He took out the (organic, demerara one-pound, Stiles was a bit of a food whore) bag, held it over the middle of the empty kitchen table, unsheathed his claws, let the sugar run out, then set the bag down. Flattened out the sugar. Wrote some words in the sugar with his talons because never let it be said that Derek couldn’t ever have a little fun with this shit. He’d had a long night. Though Stiles was going to be pissed that he hadn’t been here for this part.

Then he sat down, beta fangs extended and claws out and up in the “I’m (otherwise) unarmed” gesture universal to all natural and supernatural kind, and waited while the Sheriff absorbed what Derek had written. His eyes reflected back red in the reading glasses balanced on the end of the sheriff’s nose.

 _Stiles runs with werewolves._ The sugar crystals smelled slightly burnt, sweet and overwhelming. Like Stiles.


End file.
